


Celebrity Chef: Monster Edition

by Asidian



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Bad Puns, Cooking, Gen, Television
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mettaton walked onto the stage, exposed metal polished to a brushed chrome, legs blinding neon pink from a new paint job. "Hello, darlings," he said. "Change of plans. I'll be your host for tonight."</p>
<p>The crowd was fond of the idea, if the sudden rise in volume was any indication. A woman toward the back of the room shrieked, "Mettaton, I love you!"</p>
<p>"Hey!" hissed the announcer, from off-stage. "Hey! You're supposed to be cooking!"</p>
<p>Mettaton blew him a kiss, waved him away, and turned back to the audience. "Should we say hello to our contestants?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrity Chef: Monster Edition

**Author's Note:**

> Beanclam wanted everyone wildly successful in the surface world. I'd been watching way too much Food Network. I'm so sorry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a treat tonight."

The announcer's voice rolled out from the speakers like a wave – across the stage, with its gleaming rows of pristine cookware, over the candy-red cushioned chairs where the studio audience sat. "Because you're here for Celebrity Chef's very first, very special monster edition!"

Applause crashed through the hall. Some of the gathered humans and monsters stood, hooting approval.

"Now," said the announcer's voice. "Please welcome your host –"

But he never finished his sentence. The sound cut out, and from backstage, something crashed. A peal of feedback from the microphone dragged its metaphorical nails down the metaphorical blackboard of everyone's souls.

Mettaton walked onto the stage, exposed metal polished to a brushed chrome, legs blinding neon pink from a new paint job. "Hello, darlings," he said. "Change of plans. I'll be your host for tonight."

The crowd was fond of the idea, if the sudden rise in volume was any indication. A woman toward the back of the room shrieked, "Mettaton, I love you!"

"Hey!" hissed the announcer, from off-stage. "Hey! You're supposed to be cooking!"

Mettaton blew him a kiss, waved him away, and turned back to the audience. "Should we say hello to our contestants?"

He tipped the microphone out toward the hundred gathered throats intent on screaming themselves hoarse.

"My," he said, after a moment. "So insistent. Well, anything for my fans." One graceful metal arm extended toward the side of the stage.

"Our first competitor is the talented Napstablook. He plays five instruments, and of course was the brilliant song writer, sound mixer, and studio musician for our platinum album, MTT Rocks the Surface."

The applause from the audience rose to a fever pitch. Mettaton paused, expectant. "Blooky," he said. "That's your cue."

From offstage, a small voice replied, "Weren't you supposed to cook?"

"Plans change, darling. That's showbiz." Mettaton strode to the side of the stage and returned an instant later, ushering a reluctant ghost onto the set. "Now, say something to your adoring fans, won't you?"

Napstablook stared at the microphone, then at the rows upon rows of faces.  "B-but. The ingredients are corporeal. Sorry, everyone. I'm sorry."

"Oh dear," said Mettaton. "You're right." He snapped his fingers toward the front row, where Burgerpants was slumped, world-weary and wise beyond his years. "Off you go," said Mettaton. "We'll need a full set of ghost ingredients. Show starts in five, my beauty. You'd best hurry."

Burgerpants gaped. He tugged reflexively at the MTT logo on his shirt, looking rather as though he wished it wasn't there. "Where am I supposed to find ghost ingredients in the surface world?"

" _Off_ you go," Mettaton said again, voice dripping honey, but there was an edge to his showman's smile.

Burgerpants broke into a full-on sprint for the studio door.

Napstablook stared mournfully at his cousin, as though gauging whether there was any chance Mettaton could change his mind and still decide to cook. "But the judges won't be able to taste it," he said, plaintive.

"Blooky. Sweetheart. Let your fans lavish you with affection. It's not _about_ the food."

Napstablook gave a little nod, slumped, and floated toward a cook station, resigned.

"Now, our second contestant," Mettaton said, facing the audience again without missing a beat. "He's quite popular online, with a Youtube follower count in the hundreds of millions. He's the mascot of the monster world, and he runs the blog THE COOLEST DUDE ON THE HUMAN INTERNET. You know his name, don't you, my lovelies? Why don't you call him out?"

"Papyrus!" screamed the crowd.

The coolest dude on the human internet trotted onstage in a white chef's hat half as tall as he was and a crisp white apron that had originally said, "Kiss the Cook." The words "Kiss the" had been crossed out, to be replaced with "Masterful (and very cool)." The cartoony red lip print remained.

His cheekbones were pink, eyesockets shining. Several members of the studio audience who'd had limited contact with monsters leaned over to ask friends how this could be so.

"Humans," said Papyrus, into the microphone, "never fear. I, the great Papyrus, will not let you down. My exploits in the kitchen are legendary!"

"I read your ravioli post," called a man in the back row. "Make ravioli!"

"No," came a counter voice. "Linguini."

"Rigatoni!"

"Careful, my beauty," said Mettaton. "With fans as passionate as these, someone might take advice from your apron."

"Why shouldn't they?" said Papyrus. "A truer apron has never existed. It's twice as true as other aprons, because I'm both masterful _and_ cool."

The nuances of amusement in Mettaton's smile came across surprisingly well, given that his face was metal. "And a cook."

" _Thrice_ as true," said the great Papyrus, striking a pose that would have been more effective with a cape and a strong breeze.

"Well, you heard it here first, my lovelies," Mettaton said. "Never ignore the apron of the great Papyrus."

The crowd hooted and cheered, and Papyrus took his place at the second station.

"Contestant number three," said Mettaton, "is the owner of the hotdog empire Skeledogs. He's a part-time babysitter, full-time vendor of underground souvenirs, site operator for THE COOLEST DUDE ON THE HUMAN INTERNET, and occasional guest lecturer at Stanford's department of quantum mechanics. Say hello to –"

"Whups," said Sans. "Missed my intro."

He was already at his station, leaned way back in a chair that looked like it had been stolen from the studio audience. Maybe it had been. Where the front row had been full before, now Burgerpants' seat was suspiciously absent.

Sans flapped a languid wave. "I'm not a pasta expert like my bro, but I know my way around a kitchen. My competitors better be careful." One eye socket tipped closed in a conspiratory wink. "Let's just say, I'm not afraid to take whisks."

The crowd was split between laughter and groans. Despite the drawbacks of a metal face and the limitations it imposed, Mettaton managed an expression that was remarkably long-suffering.

"Brother," said Papyrus. "We are on _television_."

Sans' grin crept a little wider. "C'mon, bro. Isn't that the prime time for jokes?"

"Sans!"

A metal hand closed decisively around Sans' microphone and took it away.

"And finally," Mettaton said, ignoring the thanks from contestant number two and the laughter from contestant number three, "say hello to the frightfully effective Olympic swim coach and new middleweight champion of the world – Undyne the Undying!"

"Yeah," said Undyne, stalking onto the stage like she owned it, "let's hear it, punks!" Her grin was huge and toothy; she pumped her fist, and the crowd, as though infected by her enthusiasm, went crazy.

Mettaton held the microphone out to her. "What do you bring to this competition, sweetheart?"

"Nothing sweet," Undyne told him, expression so fierce it looked as though she might bite the microphone off in his hand. "I'm gonna tear this place apart. You humans ever seen a monster set on not losing?"

"Yeah!" screamed half the crowd. "No!" screamed the other half.

"Well, you'll see one tonight. This. Is. On!"

Certain members of the audience began unpacking luggage: motorcycle helmets, and rugby gear, and tarps. They were, to a person, every assembled human who had seen Undyne fight. Or cook. Or give an interview on the news.

They were also screaming the loudest, all enthusiasm, as she strode over to station four and banged on the metal countertop.

"Splendid!" said Mettaton. "All the pieces are in place. Now, you know the rules, don't you, my darlings? I'll unveil the secret ingredient for today's episode, and then you'll have one hour to create a three-course meal for the judges. Are you ready?"

"Yeah!" yelled the audience. "Yeah!" yelled Undyne and Papyrus. Sans gave a thumbs up, still missing his microphone. Napstablook said, "No," but he was drowned out by everyone else.

Suddenly, the door to the studio banged open.

Burgerpants stood in the doorway, eyes wild, panting and drenched in sweat. "Did I make it?" he wheezed, as four ghosts with their arms full of ingredients floated up to the stage to stock Napstablook's cook station.

"Oh," Napstablook said into the beat of silence. "Sorry. I guess I'm ready, after all."

"Ahem," said Mettaton. "That's quite enough of that. All eyes on me, now. Thank you." He extended one arm, all showmanship, to pull the cover off the pedestal in the center of the kitchen. "Today's secret ingredient is… veal!"

Burgerpants made a small, distressed noise. "Did we get veal?"

"On three, you'll begin," Mettaton said, as his employee took off running again. "One. Two."

The crowd fell silent, waiting. The pause was longer than it probably needed to be.

"Be free, my beauties! Three! Cook us a fabulous meal!"


End file.
